The examinations for tenth degree, up to those for fifth degree, take place within the same arena I was tried in, the Arena of Lost Souls. It feels strange to be up in the stands, looking down at the black sand just as Guildmaster Wharoth, Vanerak, the father of Barahtan, and all the crowd clamoring for my death looked down upon me. I didn't quite appreciate the scale when I was down there. The circle looks huge from up here, clearly hundreds of feet in diameter. Apparently the stands seat up to eighty thousand dwarves.

We walk through to our guild's designated seats. I take my place a few seats in front of Guildmaster Wharoth. Unlike some guilds, who determine who sits where strictly by rank, the Association of Steel's rules and regulations are a little less strict.

On my left is Braztak, and on my right Jerat sits down. Both are in full armor, as am I. Braztak's purple and green gold gleams brightly, standing out even amongst all the other strange armors here.

My war-pick draws quite a few looks from the dwarves of other guilds. They no doubt notice its great similarity to its predecessor. Its glow—the invisible one of violence—is very strong. The many overlapping auras of runic power do not drown it out.

Most of the seats fill up over the next half hour. “Shouldn't be long now, should it?” I whisper to Braztak.

“No. Not long at all.”

Servants down below are making the final preparations. They rake into the black sand a long track that loops around the whole arena. In one area, desks and slates are being set up, bundles of ropes and heavy-set armor stands in another. The rest of the space is taken up by fenced enclosures. The fences are metal, and enruned.

“I hope they don't bring in anything too nasty,” I say.

“They might,” says Braztak. “Depends on how big the examiners make the groups.”

“I see.”

“One time,” says Jerat, “Apparently, anyway—all the initiates were in one big group, and pitted against a full-grown iron-troll.”

“An iron-troll? Initiates?”

“Yes. There were a few casualties.”

“I thought they did things sensibly here!”

“They do. The initiates did bring the thing down—eventually. The examiners didn't have to step in.”

“Still!”

Jerat shrugs. “The rust has to be scraped away somehow.”

“What in hell are you on about? Our initiates aren't rust!”

“I never said ours were! Not one of our initiates has perished in an examination yet. Only a few of them have even failed." He swigs from a flask he's snuck in. "Relax, Zathar. It'll all turn out fine.”

I wait, nervously, for beasts to appear from the side-doors and be wrangled into the enclosures, but no such thing happens. Once the desks, ropes, et cetera have all been set up, a silence falls over the arena. It seems the beasts will be brought in later.

The initiates begin to walk in through the grand entrance, in serried ranks of gleaming metal. I scan the column for our guild's examinees. After a few hundred dwarves are through, I spot Guthah leading them. He bears his long spear high, and his head is held high also.

Pride swells in me—I never imagined I'd feel such looking at them, but out of all the hopefuls here, they're some of the best. Their armor is more regular in shape, shines brighter, has denser script enruned. Some of the dwarves here bear weapons with crooked shafts, blunt blades, but not the dwarves of the Association of Steel. Our initiates' weapons are ready to slay.

Several minutes of marching later and all the initiates are out. They are ordered into formation in a space at the center of the arena. They're facing the box seats. I count the number of dwarves on the edges of the rectangle they form; it's twenty by ninety dwarves. That makes nearly two thousand initiates here.

At the highest box, the one Vanerak watched my trial from, stands the head examiner, one of the Thanic Guard. He's swathed in gleaming silver and platinum chainmail. A heavy crimson cloak hangs from his shoulders. He speaks. His voice—amplified somehow—carries throughout the arena.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Initiates of Allabrast. Today you take your final step on the journey to becoming a runeknight. The challenges you face this hour...”

The speech is a long one, and I soon lose focus. I'm too nervous to focus. I examine the weapons of the initiates more closely, using a magnifying scope Braztak lends me. On second pass, their equipment doesn't look so brilliant. A few of their poems have obvious mistakes.

“Who the hell taught them to write runes?” I say, scowling.

“I did,” says Jerat, sounding a little put-out. “But I can't tell them what to write on their crafts now, can I?”

“I suppose not. Still, they might at least have checked against the dictionary after drafting.”

“Drafting?”

“Yes. What, don't you write a draft on paper?”

“Runes on paper! Absurd.” Jerat shakes his head. “I put mine directly on the armor.”

“You mean you graft each one right after you shape it?”

“Yes. Works better that way.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

At least the poem on Guthah's spear has no major errors. It's a straight forward affair, and will probably be effective, even if it is a little crude and uninspired.

“Give me a look at them,” says Braztak, and I hand the magnifying glasses to him. “That one there's done well for herself,” he muses. “Interesting weapon.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Pellas, I think she was. Her shield looks decent too.”

He hands me the glasses so I can get a better look. I'm surprised—her forging technique always seemed lacking to me, but she's managed to make a fine sword. It's short, nearly a long dagger, and triangular. The point looks needle-sharp, and the poems are constructed to help it keep that sharpness no matter what it strikes. Her shield is round and very convex. The poem matches it—force will be directed away from the center.

“...and now, finally, the time has come. Make your way to your desks.”

The head examiner finishes his speech. The initiates are lead by servants and red-cloaked examiners to their desks for the first part of the examination, the written section. Upon each desk is a slate, semi-metallic, and a steel pen. The initiates are to translate phonetic symbols into runes of various scripts. My own examination for tenth degree had a similar test.

But as soon as the initiates sit down the lights of the arena suddenly dim. The beating of a drum begins. The beats are heavy, and low in timbre. They shake me in my armor. Some of the dwarves in the stands get to their feet, look around in shock. I do the same.

“What the hell's going on!”

“Relax!” Jerat is laughing. “They do this sometimes here, to keep everyone on their toes.”

“Do what?”

“Throw them into the physical part before they do the mental.”

“It's to unbalance them,” adds Braztak. “Keep them under pressure.”

I sit down. “I see.”

Down below the initiates are being hurried from their seats to the path looping around the edge of the arena. A panicked crowd forms—I can't find our initiates, they seem to have been scattered.

“The test of endurance starts now, I presume,” I say.

“Yes,” says Braztak.

A line of examiners forms fifty yards behind the initiates. Instead of weapons they bear musical instruments: brass horns and large drums. They blow and beat and begin to chase, cloaks streaming behind them. The initiates start to run.

The crowd erupts into cheering, so loud that it's almost drowning out the blare of the instruments. I see that some of the initiates are panicking, sprinting out ahead of the pack, failing to pace themselves. They need to be going steadily and conserving their stamina. This is a test of endurance, not speed.

A runeknight must be able to endure. More than strength, agility, and speed, it's endurance that separates the tough dwarves from, as Jerat put it, the flakes of rust.

I'm relieved to see that none of our initiates are sprinting, nor do any of them seem to be lagging behind. However it's difficult to tell who's who now the lights are darkened. Only once this test is over will I be able to be sure if they've passed or failed. I'm going to feel every second of this wait.

“Beer and snacks?” Jerat suggests. “Some servants are coming around.”

“I'll pass,” I say.

Only half an hour in, initiates start dropping. The runeknight examiners step on them, spit on them. I focus intently through the magnifying scope at each one who falls. None of them are ours, yet.

Their flailing, panting forms aren't dragged off the track—when the rest of the initiates come back around, they trample on the fallen. A few try to drag guildmates up, very few. The vast majority have neither the pity nor the stamina to spare.

The bell finally chimes. Faces appear in the sand—of dwarves, exhausted, mouths open. The initiates stumble to a halt. I catch sight of Pellas. She's standing straight, in contrast to most around her who are leaning over, clutching their knees, or on their knees vomiting through their helmet visors. Guthah is also showing mettle—he could be using his spear as a crutch, but he's not.

The cloaked examiners and servants lead them to their writing desks as the lights gradually return to full brightness. The defeated walk back out the grand entrance in disgrace—those that are able, that is. Quite a few are being dragged.

I sweep my gaze over the writing desks. A full quarter are empty. I go row by row methodically, making sure all our initiates remain.

“They've all passed!” I say. “Yes!”

“I put them through their paces before I handed them off to you,” says Braztak. “They've circled practically the whole of Allabrast with stones strapped to their backs.”

“I remember, Braztak. You took me on a few of those excursions.”

He laughs. “Yes. You didn't have much trouble with them.”

“No.” I grin. “I walked the deep underground for more than ten years, remember?”

“Yes.” Braztak's face turns serious, and he looks at Jerat. “Let's hope their runic test goes just as well.”

Jerat scowls. “It will.”